


Crowley Would Rather Sleep Than Answer Your Phone Call (Unless You’re Aziraphale)

by Phoenix_of_Athena, Tigerdog1



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crack, Crowley is So Done (Good Omens), Domestic Fluff, Flowers, Fluff and Crack, Footnotes, Gen, Getting Together, M/M, Moving In Together, Other, Phone Calls & Telephones, Picnics, Post-Canon, Romance, Romantic Gestures, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), Walks On The Beach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2019-10-08
Packaged: 2020-11-27 04:20:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20942165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phoenix_of_Athena/pseuds/Phoenix_of_Athena, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tigerdog1/pseuds/Tigerdog1
Summary: Aziraphale gives Crowley's telephone number to Adam after the Apocalypse-that-wasn't.  This might be a mistake; Crowley certainly thinks so.  And he'd be determined to hold it against Aziraphale too, if only the angel wasn't so damn forgivable.With one awkward phone call, things begin to snowball rapidly, hurling Aziraphale and Crowley into comfortable co-habitation.





	Crowley Would Rather Sleep Than Answer Your Phone Call (Unless You’re Aziraphale)

**Author's Note:**

> ...What is it about co-authoring something that automatically ramps up the silliness factor by 10,000% ?  
  
[Thanks to SHINeeNAilee for beta-reading this thing, and for figuring out how to make the dang footnotes work.]

It was a beautiful day in the usual way of summer days in Tadfield. Small, fluffy white clouds drifted across the sky, and a breeze rustled through the trees surrounding the quarry. 

The Them were spending the afternoon by the pond, and they were sitting on a large pile of stones with their feet dipped in the water. Brian kicked at Wensleydale, soaking the rolled up ends of his trousers. Pepper was talking to Adam.

"Do you understand what happened on Saturday?" she was saying, "Because I was there—and I _helped—_but I'm still confused." 

Adam frowned. He'd been trying not to think about it.

"Does it matter?" he asked, shrugging languidly, "Everything turned out alright in the end." 

Pepper made a frustrated sound that caused the other members of the Them to flinch.

"Look," she said, "a lot of impossible things happened. You went a bit mad, we had an actual tornado in Tadfield, and I think that we met Death. Like, the _person _Death. It rained fish, and, and—and Atlantis was on the telly, and it was _real—_and my mum said that there were reports of streets on fire…! And then I get home, and nobody else remembers _any_ of it. I just want some sort of explanation, Adam, ‘cos you were in the middle of everything."

Brian and Wensleydale exchanged a glance. 

"She _is _right, Adam," said Wensleydale, avoiding Brian’s attempt to shove him into the pond, "the world went completely topsy turvy, and we were only there because of you. I think you owe us. Can you at least tell us about everyone who turned up?"

This brought Adam up short, because while he knew broadly who everyone was, he wasn't really clear on all the details. 

"Actually…" he said, "that's something I wouldn't mind knowing myself." 

Or, well, it was something he wouldn't mind knowing if he hadn't been trying to forget about the whole almost apocalypse thing altogether.

"Here," he said a bit grudgingly, "that blond fellow gave me his number, how about we ring him up? I can talk, and you can tell me some things to ask."

"Sounds good," said Brian. "C'mon, I live closest. We can use my phone."

* * *

“Ngggghhhhh,” Crowley groaned as he slouched into the back room of Aziraphale’s bookshop, staring down at the dark screen of his mobile phone. 

Aziraphale was sitting in his armchair, and he looked up from his book at the sound of Crowley’s voice.

“What’s the matter, my dear boy?” he asked, peering at the demon from over his reading glasses.

“What’s the _matter_, Angel,” said Crowley, “is that _somehow,_ the bloody antichrist has my phone number.” 

Aziraphale furrowed his brows.

“I don’t see what the trouble is,” he said. “There isn’t any harm in a simple phone call.” 

“You say that,” said Crowley, “but he was asking so many _strange questions._ I wasn’t expecting the bloody Spanish Inquisition.”**[1]**

The demon strolled forward to perch on the arm of Aziraphale’s chair, placing the dark screen of his phone right in the middle of Aziraphale’s book. _There._ Now the angel would _have _to look at him.

“Why’d you have to give him _my _number, anyways?”

“Well, it seemed like a good idea,” Aziraphale said, “and I didn’t want to entirely drop contact with the boy. He had just stopped Armageddon, but he was left at loose ends about things, and it’s not like he has anyone else to speak to about it. Heaven and hell have disavowed him, the same as they have us… And besides,” he added wryly, “weren’t _you _the one who said we could be like godfathers?”

Crowley frowned but remained silent; the angel wasn’t exactly _wrong,_ no matter how Crowley felt about it now.

“In any case,” Aziraphale said primly, “at the time, I hadn’t had a phone. Adam hadn’t set my shop to rights just yet.”

He pushed Crowley’s mobile back into his hand and returned his gaze to his book.

Crowley huffed and pried the book from the angel’s hands, standing from the chair to pace about the room.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, looking mournfully at his annotated bible where the demon was waving it about. 

“Look,” said Crowley, “I’m not saying we shouldn’t...I dunno..._be there_ for the boy, but I’m not exactly the best person to serve as a role model, especially where questions are concerned.”

“Well,” said Aziraphale, “what sort of things did he ask, anyways?” 

Crowley pulled a face.

“Er,” he said.

“What?” said Aziraphale.

“Well,” said Crowley, and then he stopped. Adam had gone on about a number of things, but only one subject really stuck in his mind—and he wasn’t sure how the angel would respond, considering exactly _what_ Adam had insinuated about the two of them.

“He erm…” The demon floundered. He couldn’t quite force the truth through his lips. “He asked—ngh—he asked why you dress at least a century out of fashion.” 

Internally, Crowley winced at what had come out of his mouth. Aziraphale looked affronted. 

“Well!” he said. “And here I thought that Adam seemed a polite young man.” 

“Oh, Angel,” Crowley said placatingly, “this is how kids are. They say anything that pops into their heads.”

“And that’s what had you so upset, was it?” asked the angel. “So much that you could hardly bear to say it?” He looked sharply at Crowley.

“Er,” said the demon.

Aziraphale’s stare was heavy.

“Well…” trailed off Crowley, suddenly much more interested in the book he had stolen from Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale sighed.

“Alright, my dear, if you don’t want to say it, I won’t waste my time trying to force you to. Now, won’t you give me back my book?” He reached towards Crowley with an open palm.

Crowley looked from Aziraphale to the book, and back again. He glowered over his sunglasses.

“Augh! Fine!” he said, slapping the book into Aziraphale’s hand, “If you must know...he wanted to knooooow...howlongwehadbeenacouplefor.”

Aziraphale blinked. 

“What was that?”

“I _said,_” repeated the demon, tugging uncomfortably at his collar,**[2]** “that the son of satan just rang me up to ask how long we had been _together._ As a _couple._”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale. 

He wasn’t exactly shocked, not in the sense of bewilderment; but it was unexpected to hear that assumption coming from a child, let alone _this _one. 

“W-well I’m sure he must have meant how long we’ve been a couple of _best friends_?” he tried.

“_Best friends?_” Crowley echoed. “Who even asks that? That’s...not what he meant, Angel, you _know _that.”

And Aziraphale _did_ know. This wasn’t the first time that he and Crowley had been mistaken for an item, after all. It had, in fact, happened almost unnervingly often over the years.**[3] **But it _was_ the first time hearing it since he and Crowley had...well...more or less ditched Heaven and Hell. The first time since they had became free agents; free man-shaped beings able to choose for themselves…free to think thoughts that they’d had to repress. And quite suddenly, Aziraphale realized that he _did _want to choose. 

“I know…” Aziraphale said hesitantly. His thoughts began to race—he had known for a very long time about his feelings for the demon, but he had thought them to be…discreet; he had thought he had disguised them, but now here Crowley was, actually bringing them up and seeming afraid to even broach the idea of them being in a relationship. What if the demon really would be repulsed? 

“But,” he continued, “why ever would he have made that assumption?”

“Oh, for Hell’s sake, Angel.” Crowley pulled off his glasses, clutching them in his hand and leveling a burning gaze at Aziraphale. “You speak like an absolute pansy, get giggly over crepes, and act so damn happy over even the littlest things every time I see you! You have _the_ fruitiest demeanor known to man!” 

Crowley exclaimed all of this with a slightly bewildered but mostly exasperated tone. He waved his hands in a gesture that could universally be interpreted as “you have got to be kidding me.” 

“That’s _the _absolute pansy to you,” the angel replied sternly, a hint of amusement coming through. Then he hesitated.

“Besides, it can’t be entirely _my_ fault,” he said, his voice slightly strained. “And I didn’t know it was a crime to conduct oneself as a proper gentleman or to—to _enjoy _things in life! Isn’t the very ability to enjoy this world a part of what we fought for? And I’m obviously not the _only _one who people seem to find it easy to believe to be attached—to—well. To me. It takes _two,_ Crowley. I don’t understand why this time is so different from all the others. We _have_ been taken to be a couple in the past.”

Crowley’s expression went flat. That was true, of course. And he didn’t really mind it, usually. Humans would think what they would, no matter what Crowley had to say about it. But for some reason, this time, here and now, actually _voicing it_ to the angel… it felt different somehow. As if the mistaken conclusion had more weight.

“_I know that, Aziraphale,_” Crowley hissed, averting his eyes.

There was a silence. Aziraphale watched the demon, his annoyance slipping away as his friend seemed to fold in on himself. 

Crowley took a breath.

“I suppose I’m just scared,” he said blankly, eyes fixed on the shop window, “I don’t—I don’t know what this means for us, if it means anything at all. We’ve spent hundreds of years just following orders, doing what we could to stay under the radar when we’re together. Is it different, now that we aren’t being watched by those pricks anymore?”

Crowley raised his head to stare directly at Aziraphale.

“I’m scared…” he said again, voice wavering, “because maybe I want it to be true.”

Aziraphale’s mouth flapped wordlessly as he groped for words; he hadn’t expected this at all. Then he seemed to shake himself, took a deep breath, and stood up from his chair. He straightened himself and slowly walked over to Crowley, lingering an arm’s length away.

“Well,” he said breathlessly, meeting Crowley’s yellow eyes, “you needn’t be. Because I want it too.” 

* * *

Crowley was in the middle of a nice, forty-eight hour nap when his phone rang. He groped for it blindly at his bedside table.

“Wassit?” he slurred into the phone, the cold glass screen resting on top of his face as his arms fell bonelessly**[4]** back onto the mattress. 

A high, young voice came over the other end. _Adam._

“When you were in heaven, did you ever stand on a cloud an’ pee down on people?” he said, and Crowley had to do a mental double-take.

“...........That’s…._no_,” he said. “That’s not how it _works.”_ And he hung up.

Staring at his phone, Crowley groaned (or perhaps screamed) into his pillow.

The phone rang again.

“Mmmmmrrrrgg,” said Crowley. He answered it.

“WHAT?” he said.

“Wensleydale wants to know if you helped stab Caesar.” 

“No,” Crowley hissed and stuffed the phone under his pillow. He was too sober for this. 

Adam’s voice could still be heard over the speaker, increasingly climbing in pitch with each inquiry. Crowley stuck his arm over the edge of the bed and groped for a bottle of vodka. His hand found one where one hadn’t been before, and he started chugging.

“Crowley?” said Adam’s voice, and suddenly it sounded like the boy was standing next to him. Crowley jolted and looked around before scrambling for the phone.

“_Don’t do that,” _he said. He could hear the Them laughing on the other end.

Crowley held his head in his hands in defeat.

“Okay, shoot,” he said, “I’ll answer five questions, any five. Choossse them wisely. And then let me go back to sssleep.”

“It’s the middle of the day,” came a girlish voice over the phone, and then a lot of hushing. 

“I don’t care,” he said quickly. 

There was a pause in which there was a rushed murmur of voices cutting each other off.

“Okay,” said Adam, “first question: how did you become a demon? ‘Cause I know all demons used to be angels. They’re the same sort of beings at the core of it.”

Crowley hadn’t expected this; perhaps he had had too much to drink. But then...did he _really _want to deal with this without the vodka in his system? 

“I…” he said, “I think that’ss ssort of perssssonal, don’t you?”

“You _said _anything,” said Adam.

Crowley briefly considered telling the truth: that he’d just sort of ended up in hell without actually knowing how. That even now, he still didn’t know what separated him, when it came down to it, from somebody like Aziraphale. 

“Well, sssomebody’s got to be—a demon, I mean. I guess I just drew the short straw. Or maybe when they lined us up to pick teams, somebody thought I’d be a useful player.”

“So, like an occult football player?”

“Yeah, sure.” Crowley glowered into his empty bottle. It refilled itself.

There was another quiet discussion on the other end of the line.

“_Did _you know anybody famous?” Adam asked, “Like Churchill, or Cleopatra?”

Crowley let out a breath.

“Oh, that’s an easy one,” he said. “Yeah, ‘course I did. Met Shakespeare a few times. Not Cleopatra, but Hatshepsut was my kind of pharaoh. They tried to erase her from history, but we remember! Was quite pleased when historians rediscovered her.” He had a bit of a grin in his voice now.

“And Churchill?” said Adam.

“No, no,” said Crowley. “Not Churchill. The man was much too busy. Figured it was best not to bother him. Besides, I had other things to worry about at the time. The _angel_ got ‘imself tangled up in things he shouldn’t have, an’ it took a while to sort things out and track him down.”

There was a beat of silence.

“How about aliens?” said the voice over the phone. “Does the government really keep them locked up somewhere to experiment on?”

“D’you really want me to answer that?” Crowley asked slowly, “It’d take the mystery out of things. Where’s the fun in that?”

“He’s got a point,” someone said on the other end, and Crowley snickered into his bottle.

“Fine,” said Adam, “All right, then. Was the platypus designed as a joke?”

“No,” said Crowley, and then grinned. “But the dinosaurs were.”

“What d’you mean?”

“Well, they didn’t exist, did they?”

“_Yes they did_,” came Wensleydale’s voice, the boy apparently having snatched up the receiver. “They’re in museums and everything! You can see them, they have huge fossil skeletons. _Well,_ not the real ones, those are stored in the basement or something, but they’re got perfect molds of them for everyone to see.”

“Yeah, fine joke, that,” said Crowley. “Didn’t really get it ‘til now, but it’s—” he cackled, “—hilarious.” 

He fumbled his vodka and hiccupped.

“Go ahead, ask another one.”

“How many flavors of ice cream are in the world?” quickly blurted out Brian, and Crowley could hear a chorus of groans and complaints in the background. The demon grinned, capping his bottle and tossing it aside.

“Oh, infinite,” he said. “Humans have unlimited imagination. Not always good taste, though.” 

“Infinite?” came the awed whispers of the kids, and then they broke into loud conversation.**[5]**

“Bye,” said Crowley and hung up. He pulled his pillow over his face, and curled into his blankets. 

Ah, sleep. 

* * *

It was early evening as Aziraphale and Crowley strolled out from the Ritz for the second time that week. With the Apocalypse-that-wasn’t almost seven days behind them, it had been one of the most relaxed meals in their entire existence, and they made their way to the Bentley in companionable silence.

In the car, Crowley maintained a controlled speed**[6]** to Aziraphale’s shop, and Aziraphale gazed out the window watching the city streets go by. 

It really was amazing, he thought, that they’d—sort of, and with help—managed to stop it all from being wiped from existence. The city was marvelous and bustling, crowded and familiar. It was London, and it was _theirs._ But even with how wondrous it all was, he was finding that it was starting to feel…a bit much.

Inside the shop, they sat together and shared a bottle of red wine. Slowly but surely, they worked their way towards drunkenness. They had ended up together on one of Aziraphale’s velvet sofas, meandering through various topics for some time before the conversation stalled.

Swirling his drink, Aziraphale looked up abruptly at Crowley, catching his eye.

“What...?” Crowley said as Aziraphale’s stare lingered, slightly confused by the other’s sudden silence.

Aziraphale hesitated, and then blurted: 

“What if we left?”

Crowley processed this.

“As in, leave your shop?” he said.

“No, erm,” said Aziraphale, “As in leave London. Leave the city, and find somewhere more quiet.”

Crowley stopped moving.

“...What do you mean?” he said, leaning forward from his comfortable slouch on the sofa.

Aziraphale took a breath, holding Crowley’s gaze.

“I… I think I’d like to go somewhere secluded,” he said. “Someplace in the countryside, perhaps. Somewhere green, with clear skies where we could see the stars every night. I want to see the ocean and walk along the shore to listen to the waves.”

He paused, glancing demurely away.

“Of course...of course I don’t want to leave my bookshop permanently,” he said. “Heavens, no! But… I want to live elsewhere for a bit. Everything has just been so _much _lately. I love London, I do, but I need things to slow down. However....” He lifted his eyes to Crowley’s again, and his breath hitched. 

“I don’t want to be alone.”

Aziraphale’s expression was subdued. He found it difficult to look right at Crowley, although he knew he must. This was no time to be bashful.

Crowley nodded as he thought through what Aziraphale had said without looking at him. His gaze roved over the familiar features of the bookshop.

“Angel,” he said, his tone surprisingly gentle as he finally turned to face Aziraphale. “Wherever you want to go, I’ll go. It’s as simple as that, so please don’t… don’t look at me like that.” 

He turned again as he said that last bit, his ears tinted red. If you asked him, he’d insist that it was from the wine.

“Do you really mean it?” asked Aziraphale.

“I do.” 

“Then… you’ll stay with me until I’m ready to come back?”

Crowley smiled.

“Of course.”

* * *

That had settled it. They were moving to the countryside, and Aziraphale quickly began looking through newspaper listings in an attempt to find a house. It had been some centuries, however, since he had made an effort to buy a property, and he didn’t have much luck.**[7]**

Eventually, Crowley stepped in, having grown tired of the angel ignoring him in favor of pouring over the papers. Besides, he reasoned, at this rate, Aziraphale wouldn’t find anything for at least another eighty years. 

Still, it took him some time to settle on what he wanted: something a good distance from London, for sure, since they both needed a change of scenery. And Aziraphale would like—something picturesque; something quaint and old fashioned, and utterly removed from Crowley’s usual tastes. But that was fine; he could appreciate old fashioned too, and he wasn’t exactly looking to impress anyone anymore. And besides… all that really mattered was Aziraphale’s happiness, right?

Being a more modern sort of person than Aziraphale, Crowley used the technology at his disposal to speed the search. And it _did_ take some hunting, but Crowley had been expecting _very hard_ that he’d find something, and so he did. It was the most perfect cottage in South Downs. The style would be to Aziraphale’s liking: old stone walls, windows with painted shutters, and a small chimney.

Crowley printed off some pictures of the place, and headed over to the bookshop. He sauntered in with a grin and tossed the stack of printouts onto Aziraphale’s desk where the angel was still going through his papers. Aziraphale stared at the photos, eyes widening, before he raised his head to look at Crowley. 

A blinding smile began to spread across his face.

“Well, Angel?” said Crowley.

Aziraphale stood, looking at the papers. He began to speak very rapidly as he paged through them, crossing around the desk to stand in front of the demon.

“Oh, this is lovely, look! What a layout—we could place a few of my reading chairs here by the fireplace, a bookshelf here and here and here—and, oh, how nice it would be to have a large wine rack—oh, and doiley’s across the table tops, I could have my lamp over there—and of course we could have your plants in this room next to the bedroom, though I do say we may need to put your statues outside in the garden...Hm, what about here… Perhaps we could have a room for your...hi-fi?” 

Crowley blinked rapidly behind his sunglasses.**[8]** Hi-fi, honestly. He cracked a grin. 

“So, you like it then?” he asked, and in response Azipahale flung his arms around Crowley’s shoulders. 

They breathed. 

Crowley stood still, a little stunned.

“It’s perfect,” Aziraphale murmured into his shoulder, and Crowley’s posture slowly loosened, his hands coming to rest delicately against the angel’s back.

“I’m glad you agree,” he said, looking down into fine blond curls. Huffing a laugh, he tucked the angel under his chin, and held him tighter.

* * *

Anathema was taking tea over a copy of the _New Aquarian_ when Newt walked in, eyes locked on something in his hand.

“What do you have there?” she asked.

“Erm,” he said. “We got a postcard? It’s from those two odd men we met at the air base. You know. Your book thieves.” 

He read aloud:

“_To our dear new friends,_

_I am writing to inform you that Crowley and I have temporarily moved from London. We have gone to the seaside for fresh air and a break from the bustle of city life. I realize that this notice comes both suddenly and rather late, but I’m afraid it slipped my mind in the midst of the move. You are, of course, invited to come and visit. It would be lovely to have some familiar faces about in the new place. The move itself was very pleasant, all things considered. We stopped at this delightful restaurant in Chichester. Such delicious pot pies, I must say! And such a wonderful view, oh, you simply must come and see! I picked up this little photo from the souvenirs, and I haven’t had the joy of doing so before, so do excuse me if I go on. Crowley informs me that most postcards should be brief, so I leave this here._

_Yours truly,_

_Aziraphale”_

The whole thing sounded incredibly posh if you asked Newt. But then, he’d never been much for letter writing.

“Huh, I could’ve sworn they already lived together,” said Anathema, diverting her attention back to the _New Aquarian_. “Good for them.”

“Wait, what? As in _together-_together?” Newt sat down opposite her. 

Anathema looked back at him and pushed up her glasses.

“_Yes_ together-together. As in, in love. You did _see _the way they looked at each other? They’re gayer than the YMCA,” she replied.

“Oh, I hadn't a clue. Right, yes, good for them.” He paused for a second and continued, “How long do you think they’ve been a couple?”

Anathema just sighed.

“Well, since it seems they only just moved in together… I’d bet everything that they only just realized a little while ago. For ethereal creatures having been around for so many centuries, they really are dense.” She looked considering. 

“Let’s pay them a visit sometime next week.” 

“Wait,” said Newt, “ethereal creatures?”

Anathema set down her magazine.

Dick Trupin pulled to a wobbly stop in front of the small South Downs cottage, and Anathema and Newt climbed out.

It had been a bit of a hassle scheduling a visit, as they’d initially only communicated using letters. However, when Anathema had mentioned their invitation to Adam, the boy had pleasantly offered the couple Crowley’s phone number. 

Standing in front of the gate, Anathema checked the paper in her hand.

“Yup, this is the place,” she said, examining the written address.

“Wow, it’s lovely,” Newt said as they got out of the car, “Like something out of a fairy tale.” 

It had taken them a few hours to get to South Downs from Tadfield, and they were both rather tired as they made their way up the cobblestone steps to the cottage.

As soon as they reached it, the door swung open to reveal Aziraphale, who stepped out with a welcoming smile.

“Good afternoon to you both!” he said as he opened his arms to greet them.

“Hello Aziraphale.” replied Anathema, reaching her hand out for a handshake.

Aziraphale faltered, his arms dropping from where he had extended them for a hug. Both saw what the other was doing and pulled back to mimic the other’s greeting. They rocked back on their heels.

“Ah,” said Aziraphale, trailing weakly off.

“Ahem. Afternoon,” said Newt, and when he stretched out a hand, Aziraphale shook it gratefully.

“I hope the drive went well,” he said, clasping Anathema’s hand in greeting as well and ushering them inside.

They made their way indoors. Walking inside was like stepping at least fifty years into the past. It wasn’t quite as they’d imagine it, not that they had any idea how imagine it anyways.**[9]**The interior of the cottage was furnished with well stuffed armchairs and bookshelf-lined walls. Window seats sat along the front of the house with embroidered cushions, and there was a stone fireplace to one side, with knicknacks along the mantle. 

Crowley’s influence was more subtle, coming through in scattered houseplants on tiered stands in the corners, and the flat screen television mounted on one wall. It was cozy, and the two who owned it looked comfortable in every aspect.

As they stepped into the room, Crowley raised a hand in greeting from where he was leaning on the wall next to the entryway.

“Thanks for coming,” he said with a little grin. “Obviously, this is the sitting room, but we’re headed out back.” He nodded them forwards, and the four made their way to the backyard. 

Outside, there was a small cluster of chairs around a table, and beyond it a sprawling garden even larger than the one in front. It contained a vibrant array of plants all along the border of the house, and extended into smaller garden patches. Beyond a hedgerow, there sat a lawn swing with a seat just wide enough for two, and a short distance from the patio was a large, marble statue of a bird with its wings spread out. It was surrounded by dark bushes and on the exterior were different variants of lilies.

“What a view,” said Anathema, taking in the vast scene of the countryside from the sloping hills down to the distant ocean. Beside her, Newt did the same, his gaze traveling across the garden. Behind a tree, his eyes caught on a second statue, and he craned his neck to look. It was obviously of two angels...doing _something_...that required them to be pressed very close together in the nude.

“Lovely sculptures you’ve got here,” he said awkwardly. 

Before this, he hadn’t really been able to see what Anathema’d been talking about, with the two being a longstanding couple. For some reason, he found it easier to believe now. 

Anathema followed his gaze, and promptly choked on her tongue. 

“Er,” Aziraphale said delicately, “yes, that was one of _Crowley’s_ acquisitions.”

Beside him, Crowley flushed slightly, and groaned.

“They’re _wrestling,_ for Hell’s sake,” he grumbled. “Why does everyone always _think_ _that?_” His words trailed off into frustrated bemusement, and he subtly reached for a watering pail to busy himself with a tomato plant.

“Uhm, the garden looks amazing. Did you two do the landscaping yourselves?” Anathema interjected, trying to change the subject.

“It’s all Crowley’s work! He’s quite a green thumb,” Aziraphale said, smiling in Crowley’s direction before sheepishly spreading his hands. “I’m not nearly as good with plants as he is, I’m afraid.”

“Not to worry,” said Newt. “I’m not much use in the garden either. Grew up in the city, and all; never got much exposure to things that are green. Er.”

“Ah, would you two like some tea? I’ll go make a pot. Any preferences?” Aziraphale said, already headed towards the door.

“Sure,” said Anathema.

“Could use a bit of caffeine,” said Newt. “Was a long drive.”

Aziraphale hummed his assent and bustled inside, leaving Anathema and Newt standing awkwardly on the patio as Crowley slunk around watering the plants.

Newt drummed his hands on the back of one of the lawn chairs, and looked consideringly at his girlfriend.

“You know, you can see auras, right?” he said quietly, “Well, I was thinking, and. And you said they aren’t human. Do they have those dark auras like those motorcycle terrorists from the airbase?”

Anathema looked consideringly back.

“You know,” she said, “that’s a good question.” 

Her eyes fluttered slightly shut as her vision shifted from the physical plane to the metaphysical. She looked over to Crowley, whose back was turned to them. The sight of him was arresting. His aura was a dark reddish gold, not of anger or resentment, per say, but in its neutral state. It extended outward in the vague shape of wings, large enough to span the entirety of the garden, and Anathema found herself unconsciously mesmerized by the shifting colors and the sheer size of the aura. 

Then, behind her, the door to the cottage opened, and Aziraphale made his way back with a tea tray, and before her eyes Crowley’s aura shifted. It began to lighten at the edges into shades of pink and red, with streaks of gold so bright she had to blink. The wings drifted towards Aziraphale like wispy tendrils, enveloping him as he placed the tray on the table. 

Aziraphale’s aura reached back. It’s pale blues seeped into soft pinks and purples that evoked the image of a sunset, its own streaks of gold brightening to match. From where she stood, it looked as if their wings were wrapping around each other, the colors mingling where they came naturally together.

At the angel’s approach, Crowley had set down his watering pail to join them at the table. He gravitated towards Aziraphale, leaning in towards the angel as he helped set out the tea. They worked shoulder to shoulder, hands brushing.

“Well?” Newt whispered, and Anathema shook her head. A small, secretive smile played across her lips. Some things weren’t hers to say. 

* * *

The night passed with Anathema and Newt set up in the cottage’s tidy guest room, and they had woken to a small breakfast already laid out in the kitchen. The day had passed lazily as they sat in the sunshine that fell through the cottage windows and talked about all manner of things. Aziraphale had discussed Agnes Nutter with Anathema at length, and both had come away feeling understood and appreciated. Newt just felt as if he’d learned rather a lot about the world that he might have been better off without.

By the time evening rolled around, all of them were feeling peckish, and at the mention of food, Aziraphale’s eyes lit up.

So it was that they were headed to a restaurant at Aziraphale’s behest.

As Crowley’s Bentley sped down winding roads towards their chosen eatery, a phone buzzed. Crowley made a frustrated sound. 

“Could you answer that for me, Angel?” he said, sounding annoyed. “Since I’m driving,” 

“Yes, of course.”

Aziraphale answered the phone. He was cut off before he could speak.

“Crowley!” said a young voice, “Can I be the flower boy at your an’ Aziraphale’s wedding? Dog can be the ring bearer! ‘Cause, Anathema told me that you two bought a house, and my mum and dad always said you had to be married to move in together.”

Aziraphale floundered.

“Er.” He looked at Crowley, and then at the road.

“What’s the little bugger asked this time?” said Crowley.

Aziraphale flushed.

“This isn’t Crowley,” he said into the phone. “And.._._your parents have a rather old fashioned view, I’m afraid. Not that that’s _bad,_ per say. But you know that Crowley’s a rather modern fellow._” _

“Oh, Aziraphale,” said Adam, “you really aren’t? But that’s what people _do_ when they love each other, right? I mean, Pepper says that marriage isn’t necessary to be in a ‘committed relationship,’ but everyone else says weddings are romantic.” The boy paused. 

“If _I _ever get married, I think I’d like to do it at an arcade. That way nobody’s bored. When my aunt got married, it was _awful_. Everyone had to wear uncomfortable clothes, and stand around in the heat, and there were no games, only dancing. I think an arcade is a much better idea. If you aren’t married yet, you should do it there.”

“I’ll...put that on the list of possible ideas,” Aziraphale hedged. He looked at Crowley from the corner of his eye. 

Adam was a good boy, really; well intentioned. But he was also _young,_ and didn’t quite understand, yet, that not every relationship followed exactly the same mold. 

Adam spoke up again.

“An’ if that doesn’t work,” he said, “you should have it in Hawaii. There’s lots of whales there. ‘M not sure I’ll have enough money to fly out there quite yet, but I’ll try to rake a lot of leaves. In about a year I’ll probably have 1000 pounds.” 

He was quite sure of himself. The edges of Aziraphale’s mouth curled up into an amused smile. 

“Well,” he said, “the whales would make it worth the trip, wouldn’t they? In any case, I’m afraid we’re somewhat busy at the moment, so I’ll speak to you later, hm?”

Then, with a fond farewell, he ended the call and put away the phone.

“Soooo, what’s he want?” asked Crowley

“Nothing important,” Aziraphale said cheerfully. “...He has a knack for picking odd things to ask.”

“He _does_, doesn’t he?” Crowley said, thumping the steering wheel emphatically. He grinned at Aziraphale, who could see his eyes crinkle up behind his glasses. 

“Was that Adam?” Anathema cut in from the back seat, “He’s enthusiastic, isn’t he? He’s a good kid at heart, though.”

“I suppose,” said Crowley as he nudged the Bentley into a parking spot.

“Maybe,” said Newt, “but he’s a weird one. He asked me the other day ‘if the number 2 pencil is the most popular, why’s it number 2 and not number 1?’”

Anathema laughed as they piled out of the car to go into the restaurant. Anathema and Newt entered through the door first; they were followed by the two centuries old beings, striding in side by side, shoulders brushing.

* * *

A week after Anathema and Newt’s visit, the sun rose slowly over the small cottage in the South Downs. It crept over soft green hillsides and slid up the warm stone walls of Aziraphale and Crowley’s cottage. 

Crowley stood outside, his head tipped up to let the sun fall across his face. He was in the front garden that surrounded their stone walkway, and he was _pruning_. With a _look,_ he removed a slug that had made its way onto his pea plant and then quickly glanced over his shoulder. Aziraphale didn’t much like him miracling away living things; although, it wouldn’t be the first time he’d chanced it.

Garden hose in hand, he resumed watering the plants that he and Aziraphale had chosen. Now that they lived in a place with plenty of yard space, it had seemed like a good idea for them to have a vegetable garden. Or, well, for Crowley to have a vegetable garden, although Aziraphale had been the one to suggest it. He'd filled it with peas and squash and tomatoes, and the angel was always pleased to see the results without having to get his hands dirty. 

There was a soft sound from the cottage door, and Crowley looked up. Aziraphale stood in the doorway, looking out.

“Crowley,” he called, “are you in the garden?”

“Hmn?” he said. “Yeah, Angel, what’s up?”

Aziraphale had one hand on the doorframe, and he was leaning out slightly to look at Crowley from around the hedges. He was delightfully rumpled, with a soft cotton robe pulled over his tartan pyjama set, and Crowely took a moment just to look at him.

“I’m putting the kettle on,” Aziraphale said. “Come on in when you’re done, dear, and I'll fix you a cuppa.”

The angel’s voice was warm and comfortable, and the smile he wore was the sort that only a year ago would have made Crowley squirm before running the other way. It was a gentle expression, kind and caring; the type Crowley only really encountered on the angel’s face. 

As it was, he found himself smiling, and ducked his head to hide it.

“All right, Angel,” he said softly. “I’ll be in in a bit. Just let me finish up.”

Aziraphale slipped inside again, and Crowley stowed away the hose, filling a watering can to reach the far end of the garden. 

The hydrangeas were blooming nicely, he thought, but didn’t voice it.**[10]** Instead, he muttered about soil acidity and hurried on.

Soon enough, Crowley put down his watering pail and looked over the wide swath of green in front of their home. The leaves straightened up under his gaze, and he grinned, satisfied, and headed indoors.

Aziraphale sat in the window seat that overlooked the garden, a steaming mug cradled in his hands. He had a book in his lap, but his attention was directed outside, following his companion as he came inside. 

“Here you are, my dear,” Aziraphale said as Crowley entered, lifting a second mug from an end table.

Crowley took it, peering into the cup.

“Earl Gray?” he said.

“Good eye,” Aziraphale hummed pleasantly as Crowley sat down beside him.

He settled himself opposite the angel on the bench, one leg bent up and the other stretched out over the floor.

“Any big plans for the day?” Crowley said, sipping his drink.

“Ah, nothing much, maybe some light reading? I’ve also been thinking about properly reorganizing my book shelves. I still haven’t gotten around to it.**[11]** I need to finish putting things in their rightful places.” Aziraphale paused. “Why do you ask?” 

“I was thinking. How about instead, we do a picnic?” Crowley asked, “We could go down to the seaside; the weather’s nice enough.”

Aziraphale perked up in excitement.

“Oh, that does sound lovely! Should I make muffins? What about croissants? I found a new recipe for blueberry and banana muffins I’ve been meaning to try out.”**[12]**

Aziraphale rambled about what they should bring to eat and drink, losing himself in his musings.

Crowley couldn’t help the smile that stole over his face. It wasn’t often that Aziraphale got lost in his thoughts like this, at least not in front of him. While it was true that the angel would sometimes get so deeply involved in a book that he’d forget to breathe for quite some time, around Crowley he was usually very attentive.

“Aziraphale,” said Crowley, breaking the angel’s train of thought.

“Ah...yes?” he replied, sounding embarrassed by his sudden lack of focus.

“Muffins sound marvelous. We can also pick up some sandwiches and _plenty _of alcohol at the shops. I can do that bit if you’d like.” 

Aziraphale beamed. 

Crowley gave a huff of a laugh and sipped at his tea, his eyes wandering over the angel’s hands as the other being did the same, delicately lifting the mug to his lips. Aziraphale had always had soft, delicate hands. Hands that were good for carefully caring for centuries old books; the type of hands you’d see on models in magazines that show off watches. Crowley bit his lip and looked away. 

* * *

Slats of sunlight crawled slowly across the walls, and Crowley glanced at his watch, sighed, and stood.

“It’s getting towards eleven,” he said. “How about I pick up the wine, and you bake the muffins and get ready, Angel?”

“Alright, dear,” replied Aziraphale, marking his book and setting it aside.

Crowley headed out the door, pulling his sunglasses out of his pocket and putting them on as he strode out. Sliding into the Bentley, he flipped on the radio, which began a rendition of Queen’s _Seaside Rendezvous_. Cranking the windows down, he drove into town. 

The village near their cottage was fairly small, very different from the busy city life they had been accustomed to for the last century. It was almost like going back to the beginning of things: quiet, verdant, and with plenty of wildlife that had quickly learned to avoid the Bentley when it was on the road. The people were all right, too, if you asked Crowley. They knew how to mind their own business, without any of that nonsense of welcome gifts or invites to the local church.**[13]**

The Bentley flew down the winding dirt road to the village main and screeched to a stop in front of the liquor store. Crowley climbed out. 

Entering the store, he made his way to the wine section to survey the lines of bottles. Definitely a few new ones to try, but that could be for another day. Running his hand along the shelf, he found a nice red that Aziraphale favored. Swiftly checking out in the nearly empty shop, he hopped over to the local grocery next door and wandered over to the shelf of pre-made sandwiches. 

He narrowed his eyes at the selection, and the employee behind the counter felt deeply unnerved although she couldn’t quite say why.

“How can I help you sir?” the shop girl asked tensely.

“I’d like four cucumber and watercress sandwiches to go,” Crowley said slowly, and the girl gulped.

“I’m terribly sorry sir, but I’m afraid we don’t carry those here,” she said.

“Oh, then what are _those_?” Crowley raised an eyebrow, and pointed to the glass case behind the counter. Where only a moment ago there had been what the employee would have _sworn_ to be corned beef sandwiches, there now say the exact sandwiches that the gentleman in the dark glasses had requested. The girl blinked.

“I must have made a mistake,” the employee said slowly, and Crowley grinned.

“No harm done,” he said cheerfully. 

The worker swiftly bagged the sandwiches. 

“I’m so sorry, sir, here you are,” she said she handed over the bag, “That’ll be….” she trailed off as she realized she didn’t actually know how much the sandwiches should cost.

“Fifteen pounds?” interjected Crowley.

“Ah...yes! Fifteen pounds. How could I’ve forgotten?” 

Bags in hand, Crowley headed for the exit, when out of the corner of his eye he caught a flash of red. He stopped. Then, he smiled. He could afford to splurge a bit, and besides, the angel _did_ so like pretty things. 

With one last transaction, Crowley left the store, a bouquet of flowers in one hand.

Climbing into the Bentley, he placed his bounty in the back, all except for the flowers, which he sneakily hid underneath his seat. Then, he was off back home. 

* * *

With the muffins on the cooling rack, Aziraphale headed upstairs to the bedroom. Standing in front of the mirror, he shed his robe and pyjamas and rummaged in the closet for his usual cream and tartan ensemble. He buttoned up his vest and shirtsleeves and fastidiously straightened and smoothed down his coat and trousers. Giving a little grin to his reflection, he adjusted his bowtie and headed back down the stairs with a bounce in his step. 

Eyeing the muffins, Aziraphale bustled over to the cupboard and pulled out a tartan patterned tin to box them up for the road. When the last muffin was carefully placed in the paper-lined tin, he stood back and surveyed his work. Abruptly, he realized something that both he and Crowley had forgotten, and with a slight furrow between his brows, he went to rummage in one of the hall closets. Come to think of it, there were a few things that they’d need...blankets, glasses and plates….

The sun was well in the sky when Crowley arrived back at the cottage. The Bentley careened around a corner and came to a stop on the dirt road in front of their gate. Crowley rolled out of the car with a swagger, popping open the back door to retrieve his shopping bags, and balanced them in his arms as he made his way to the gate, which obligingly swung open to greet him. Aziraphale met him at the front door, easily reaching to take some of his burden. 

The two of them made them made their way through the bookshelf-lined sitting room and into the cozy little kitchen, where Aziraphale had set out a basket and a pile of blankets alongside a tin that Crowley assumed held the muffins. Crowley moved forward to set down the bags and noticed a set of china plates. Doing a double-take, he inspected them closely. They were..._new._ And rather hideous, if you asked Crowley. They were exactly the kind of_ gaudy_ looking things that a certain kind of older woman would buy, with little pictures of overly perky cupids and stylized rose petals around the rims. He grimaced.

“Angel,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale looked up from where he was pulling the sandwiches from his bag. Crowley’s voice had sounded brisk, and slightly strangled.

“Yes, my dear? What is it?”

Aziraphale peered closely at him.

“Ah...” Crowley said, leaning back. 

Aziraphale’s eyes were almost too bright; a stunning blue shade that outclassed even the sky on a summer day like today. The kind of blue that made Crowley think of skies that didn’t yet know what clouds _were._

Crowley gulped. Solid thought seemed impossible, just then—his mouth flapped wordlessly as he forgot entirely what he had meant to say.

Aziraphale watched bemusedly as Crowley’s train of thought slipped away.

“Never mind,” said Aziraphale. “Just hand me those bottles, and we’ll put them in ice for the trip.”

Crowley handed over the bottles and sandwiches vaguely, watching Aziraphale as he tenderly placed the items into the basket. Absorbed as he was in watching the angel, it came as a surprise when they were suddenly ready to go.

“All right. Are you ready, my dear?” Aziraphale said, bouncing on his feet.

“Right, yeah,” said Crowley, nodding, and off they went.

* * *

Aziraphale settled into the passenger seat of the Bentley, folding his hands over the basket as Crowley started the car.

They made their way down winding roads bracketed by swaying expanses of green. Crowley had rolled the windows down again, and the dulcet tones of Freddy Mercury trailed behind them. They flew over hilltops, around the bends in the roads, and by the time the Bentley rumbled to a stop by the seaside, Aziraphale’s grip on the basket had become white-knuckled. Crowley laughed a little sheepishly, looking at him.

They were nearly the only people on the beach, the only other being a distant figure walking their dogs along the surf. The tide was low, and the waves were gentle, so they could lay down their things on the sand close to the water.

Aziraphale relished the slightly salty taste in the air as he smoothed out their blanket. Crowley had darted back over to the car for some reason, and Aziraphale busied himself unpacking the basket as he waited. As Crowley strolled back over, the angel removed his coat and carefully folded it over the top of the basket.**[14]** Crowley plopped down next to him and leaned back on his hands.

As they ate their meal, the conversation meandered on about anything and everything. Aziraphale pointed out the local bird species, and Crowley pulled the crust from his sandwich to throw a piece to the seagulls. The two of them watched as the birds devolved into a squawking battle over the food. 

“My dear,” the angel chided, “must you?” and Crowley laughed, looping an arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders. 

“Fine, fine,” he said, and tossed a few more pieces to even things up a bit. 

They sat in comfortable silence, watching the water push and pull along the coast. A ways down the beach, the distant sound of barking dogs could be heard. 

Reaching for the basket, Crowley pulled out the wine from the ice to pour a glass for them both. His motions were smooth with practice, and his hand warm where it brushed Aziraphale’s as he handed him a glass.

“How’s about a toast?” asked Crowley.

“To what?” said Aziraphale.

“To… to happiness,” said Crowley. “To sitting here with you, on a lovely day with the world not having ended yet.”

Aziraphale chuckled fondly. They clinked glasses.  
  
It wasn’t every day that Crowley would be so straightforward, but here he was, essentially admitting that being with Aziraphale was to be happy. 

Aziraphale couldn’t help the pleased blush that came over his face as he took his first sip. Peering at Crowley through his lashes, he fought against the heat in his cheeks, sipping heavily from his glass.

Gathering his courage, Aziraphale slowly reached his hand towards Crowley, brushing his fingertips against his companion’s. Crowley’s eyes darted up to meet his, and, slowly, his warm fingers closed around Aziraphale’s. He cleared his throat. Then, with the hand behind Aziraphale’s back, he miracled the flowers into his grasp and reached around to thrust the bouquet at Aziraphale.

Aziraphale blinked down at the riot of color suddenly before him.

“My dear?”

It was an elegant arrangement of red and pink carnations. 

“Er,” said Crowley, “these are for you.”

Aziraphale’s mouth slowly opened and closed before settling into a beaming smile.

The bouquet was lovely, with luscious green stems that lead to puffy looking flowers. The pinks brought to mind rosey winter cheeks, and the reds the shade of the sunset over Eden. It was an arrangement that reminded him of a debutante ball, a gift on Valentine’s day, a wedding in an English chapel...

With a slightly trembling hand, he took the bouquet from Crowley and ran a finger over the petals.

“Oh, my dear,” he said. “They’re beautiful.”

Crowley’s face went bright red to match the flowers. 

“I’m glad you like them,” he said gently, and Aziraphale felt warm and bubbly in a way that wasn’t from the wine.

“I do,” he said. His gentle fingers hesitated, and carefully, he reached into the bouquet and withdrew one of the flowers with a bent stem.

“Oh, it’s broken.” Crowley sounded disappointed, but Aziraphale only smiled.

“Nonsense,” he said, “that makes it perfect for _this._” And he delicately broke off the rest of the stem to tuck the flower behind his ear. “See? Nothing is really broken. Everything has its place, even if it isn't what we expected." 

Crowley paused and gazed at him. Then, slowly, a smile came over his reddened face. Still grinning, he sprang to his feet and held a hand out to Aziraphale, looking stubbornly at the ocean. 

“Let's go for a walk," he said. 

Aziraphale could see as clear as day how flustered Crowley was and chuckled softly. It was a pleasure to see the demon so outwardly emotional. A real treat; better even than their wine and sandwiches.

Aziraphale took Crowley's hand and allowed the other to pull him to his feet, tugging him along the shoreline. They strolled along, kicking up puffs of sand and leaving an uneven trail of footprints behind them. Crowley’s pace was a hair too swift for the angel's comfort, and Aziraphale stumbled despite his grip on Crowley's hand. 

"Slow down, please, my dear," he chided gently, "and let me walk beside you. There's no race to the finish line. Let's enjoy the scenery—and the company."

“‘Course, Angel,” Crowley said, and matched his pace.

They walked together, the sun slowly beginning set behind the horizon as they reached the top of a small dune. Side-by-side, hand-in-hand, they gazed at the waters and the changing colors of the sky. It was a beautiful day, and there would be many more like it to come.

**Author's Note:**

> **LOL, this was actually the first Good Omens fic I ever worked on (it took quite a while to finish!), and it's Tigerdog1's first fic ever. As such, I'm sure that there are flaws—but it was also ridiculously fun to write, so I hope that that comes through, if nothing else. :)**  
  
1Nobody ever does.[return to text]  
  
2 Which was distinctly not tartan.[return to text]  
  
3 For whatever reason, after the 70’s, more and more people would comment on them being out and open in public.[return to text]  
  
4 Like a boneless pizza.[return to text]  
  
5 There were other Very Important Questions they didn't get the chance to ask Crowley, such as 'Are you goth?' and 'Do you drink human blood?'[return to text]  
  
6 A casual cruising speed of 96 miles per hour.[return to text]  
  
7 The last time being the purchase of the bookshop’s grounds during the 15th century, and it had been a much different process back then.[return to text]  
  
8 Considering how seldom he blinked at all, this was perhaps the most he’s blinked in 300 years.[return to text]  
  
9 They never had visited Aziraphale’s bookshop, after all, from which the cottage drew most of its inspiration.[return to text]  
  
10 It wouldn’t do for the plants to get complacent.[return to text]  
  
11 When Aziraphale and Crowley had moved initially, they’d mostly gone about in the human way. They had, however, forgotten about the necessity of hiring a moving company, and simply expected their things to be there when they’d arrived. The things, as a result, were rather confused about how they’d gone from sitting on the same shelves and countertops where they had been for ages, to, in the next moment, sitting in moving boxes in an unfamiliar room.[return to text]  
  
12 Aziraphale, for all his love of sweets, wasn’t actually that good of a baker. So when he said that he’d bake the muffins, what he really meant was that he’d stand in the kitchen and they’d bake _themselves._[return to text]  
  
13 What Crowley didn’t know was that Aziraphale had kept an eye out for the neighbors from the start, and arranged for Crowley to be out when they stopped by, and for himself to always be the one to make nice with the village’s residents. He’d quite enjoyed the banana bread that Mrs. Next-door had brought over, and had been secretly pleased that he hadn’t needed to save any for Crowley.[return to text]  
  
14 The angel was, despite the removal of the coat, still wearing far more layers than was usual for a trip to the seaside; he wore his waistcoat over top of a long-sleeved button up, which itself covered an additional undershirt. Add to that his long trousers and polished shoes, and you had a summer outfit that would make most people cringe at the thought of the heat and and all of the little creases for sand to sneak into.[return to text]  



End file.
